


Earth Song

by siriusblue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Foxes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Foxlock. A mad idea from some beautiful pictures and art on Tumblr. Bringing up cubs ain't easy. You need all your skills...





	Earth Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mm_jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mm_jay/gifts), [Ngaijuuyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ngaijuuyan/gifts).



“I’ll be as quick as I can,” said Greg, his nose nuzzling Mycroft's.” You'll be all right with this lot, won't you?” he asked anxiously.

 

Mycroft surveyed the four not-so-tiny-anymore bundles of grey fur tumbled together in the corner of the den. Two dogs and two vixens equated to trouble on sixteen paws but Mycroft gave his worried mate his most reassuring grin.

 

“We'll be fine. Go. Unless you fancy starving?”

 

“No chance.”

 

With a flip of his bushy grey tail Greg disappeared off hunting while Mycroft curled up next to the cubs.

 

Never had he imagined he'd become a father at his time of life but Greg's former mate had fallen to a hunter leaving him with four kits to raise single-handed. Mycroft was the epitome of a cunning Reynard and had shown Greg the way into the chicken coop and other useful tricks to keep his family alive.

 

In return he had a shared den, the company of young inquisitive minds and their handsome father's grey pelt to snuggle up to at night. No old dog fox could wish for anything more.

 

In time the cubs awoke, restless and hungry. The smallest, the youngest vixen, looked around fretfully for Greg.

 

“Daddy has gone hunting,” he tried to reassure her while her siblings tussled and rolled around the den, play fighting, nipping and mock snarling.

 

She wasn't comforted. Of all Greg's cubs, Mycroft feared she would have it hardest when the time came to leave the family den.

 

She nestled closer to Mycroft who nuzzled the top of her head with his snout.

 

The song, when it came, came from the very depth of Mycroft's memories, a growling, whimpering sonata that, miraculously, did the trick. All the cubs stopped to listen, the smallest one settling her head on her paws, all worries fled in the beauty of the lullaby.

 

Greg made his way home to his den, alert for any predator on two or four legs. In his mouth was a chicken. He had been careful, it was an elderly hen who hadn't put up much resistance but would feed his family for a while. 

 

As he topped the rise of the hill, he heard it and stood there, one paw raised and his disbelieving ears pricked. The song of his kind, a song he remembered from his own mother that spoke of family, of adventure, of full bellies and warmth, but mostly of love. And it came from Mycroft's throat.

 

Greg rushed down the hill to his den to his family and to the source of the beautiful sound.

 

His love.


End file.
